


Cavalier Attitudes

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Demons, English Civil War, M/M, The Sealed Knot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-22
Updated: 2005-04-22
Packaged: 2020-06-09 14:58:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19478272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Crowley thinks he knows everything about Aziraphale. He's so very wrong.





	Cavalier Attitudes

**Author's Note:**

> Cadbury's flakes used to be advertised with shots of winsome young women lying in canoes, drifting down river while slipping the Flake suggestively between their lips and then being drenched by waterfalls. Crowley considers the ads a triumph of human art.

Crowley enjoyed the Civil War,* all in all. A lot of people were made miserable** during the post-war regime, a lot of people fell into despair over the state of their souls, and all the strict regulation of fun (forbidden) and religion (compulsory) made it inevitable that sooner or later there would be a massive explosion of repression and the whole country would party like it was 1699. Even better, he was doing none of the work and getting all of the credit. It was, well, not exactly _fun_ while it lasted, but it certainly was good for his infernal bank balance. What he was unprepared for was the attitudes to it he encountered a few centuries later.

Crowley stood in the hot sunshine, looking around the neat and orderly battlefield with interest. Members of the public weren't supposed to be on the field, of course, but he wanted to get a close up of what was happening.

"And what are _you_ supposed to be?" he asked the strategically soot-smeared young man standing in front of him.

"I'm a gunner," the idiot grinned. "We don't have real shot in the cannons, of course--"

"Shame, that," Crowley said cheerfully.

The idiot nodded earnestly. "Think what it'd be like! Shot whistling over your head--"

"Or through your head," Crowley pointed out, remembering some of the more exciting moments of his life.

"We've got black powder in them, though," the idiot said. "That'll take your arm off -- happened to a guy last year. Boom! Now he's armless, ha ha, well, one-armed anyway. He shows the video of it every chance he gets."

"And you were sentenced to this for what crime?" Crowley said.

"It's fun," the idiot said. "It's educational."

"You people are crazy," Crowley grinned, and went off to get an ice-cream. Cone in hand, he wandered through the crowd, sniggering at people's unfortunate modern fashion choices and at anyone at all dressed in seventeenth century clothing. Then he sat on the bonnet of a huge, elderly Land Rover and enjoyed his ice-cream. _Why did Cadbury's have to go and change the Flake ad?_ he wondered, eating the chocolate flake stuck in his ice-cream slowly and happily. He'd really liked those ads. Arty, they were. He finished the ice-cream and sat, happily dazed with sugar, watching the crowd swirl around him.

It was very hot, and Crowley found it more and more difficult not to simply curl up on the nice warm metal of the bonnet and have a little snooze. He slowly became aware of some sort of commotion on the other side of the Land Rover, and leaned back, peering round to see vast amounts of equipment being hauled out and piled on the grass.

"Bugger! How did my sword belt get in such a tangle?" a voice said from deep within the car.

Crowley leaned out even further to look at the person struggling with mysterious objects.

"I'd know that arse anywhere," he said. "What _are_ you up to, Aziraphale?"

The owner of the posterior in mention froze, and then a sheepish angel emerged from the depths of the Land Rover, a tangle of leather and a shiny helmet in his hands.

"Er," he said.

Crowley smiled helpfully.

"I, um, it's educational," Aziraphale said.

"So's getting your arm blown off, apparently."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. The point is, you're wearing what my horrified mind is trying to insist isn't really a doublet, you've finally found a hobby that is more embarrassing than all your other hobbies, and you appear to know someone with a car who isn't me."

"I didn't like to ask you for a lift," Aziraphale said in a small voice.

"Too blessed right. Have you _no_ shame?"

Aziraphale drew himself up to his full height and looked stern. Crowley looked down at his horrifically authentic footwear and sniggered, and Aziraphale stopped looking stern and went back to being embarrassed.

"Look, I didn't expect to see you here," he muttered.

"I was guessing that. So, don't hide your human friend from me, I could do with another laugh."

Aziraphale made a sudden frantic gesture and a young man who'd been coming towards them wandered away with a puzzled expression on his face. Crowley stared after him avidly.

"Are those actual bloody civil war style spectacles? Where do you _find_ these madmen, Aziraphale? _And_ he looks like he washes once a year whether he needs it or not - how did you stand the trip here?"

"I kept the window rolled down," Aziraphale muttered. "Look, Crowley," he said more strongly, "You've made your point, I'm ridiculous. Now could you please go away and let me get on with things?"

"You must be joking. I may take pictures; my report could do with a bit of padding."

"Captain Fell," a man with a clipboard called, "We'll need you on the field in ten minutes."

"Right!" Aziraphale yelled in desperation. "Go _away_ , Crowley. Or, no, give me a hand."

"Ooh, _Captain_ Fell, yessir, Captain Fell," Crowley said. "Can I give your sword a quick polish, Captain Fell?"

"There are natural comedians," Aziraphale said testily, "and then there's you. Come on, help me with the buckles." He held out a set of body armour to Crowley, who sighed and buckled him into it.

"That breastplate isn't slimming," Crowley said, shooting the swordbelt a glare that made it untangle itself pronto. He got the other pieces of armour into place, slung the belt across Aziraphale, and blinked as the angel put on his helmet. "You're a blessed _Roundhead_."

"That's right," Aziraphale said.

"You can't be a Roundhead! You're an angel! You're a monarchist through and through!"

"Well, yes, but this is my day off," Aziraphale said in a reasonable tone. He leaned in, smiling maliciously. "And let's face it, dear boy, who'd deliberately choose to be on the losing side in a war? A fellow'd have to be pretty stupid to do _that._ " He grinned at Crowley's expression and gave a little wave. "Ciao, Crowley."

"You owe me a drink! And an apology!" Crowley spluttered at his retreating back.

"There's a bottle of mead on the back seat," Aziraphale yelled. "It tastes like cat pee, but it's quite strong." He waved again and dived into the crowd.

Crowley pursed his lips, then shrugged and rummaged around on the back seat of the Land Rover, retrieving a bottle. He took a swig and shuddered, then changed it to something a bit more palatable. After a few more swigs he began to smile. With a little gesture he created a shiny, dainty digital camera*** and looked over to where Aziraphale was trying to drill some hopeless idiots in pike formations.

He was going to bring this up at every future opportunity. For _years._

* * * * * * * * * *

*The English one. He always claimed he'd missed the American one because he'd set his alarm clock incorrectly. Aziraphale didn't like to remind him that alarm clocks hadn't been invented at the time.

**Especially the ones looking up at the tall fellow with the black mask and the big, big axe from the perspective of the chopping block.

***He had only the vaguest idea of how digital cameras worked, which was why this one could take an infinite number of photos without ever needing its batteries changed. The fact that it ran perfectly well without batteries was just an added bonus.


End file.
